The Script
by stanzaic
Summary: Mr. Winkler suggests that everyone tries their hands at scripts. At first Jerome thinks of his original idea. Then the whole Alfie plus cellar disaster goes down and Jerome decides to write about something far more realistic. Warning inside.


**A/N:** _Hola_! Another Jerome-centric oneshot from Stori. (: This one's darker and deeper. Much more angst. I had to write something truly angsty for our favourite Jerome! :D

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _House of Anubis_.

**Warning:** Contains depression and mentions in passing of suicide.

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**THE SCRIPT**

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When Mr. Winkler suggested that everyone in drama class attempt a script, at first all he thought about was his original idea - girls in bikinis. Then the whole Alfie plus cellar equals catatonia disaster went down, and his thoughts turned to more serious things. After trying to question Patricia and failing, he returned to his room, plugged his iPod into his ears, hit play on Johnny Cash, and started to write.

It took him a while, but he forced out a few scenes. They were action-packed and suspenseful and introduced the main cast of characters, without being far too movie-like for a play script. He held a particular affinity for the lead character's best friend. The best friend was continually shoved to the back and ignored. It was a very simple yet complex plot.

He loved it.

He couldn't wait to show it to Mr. Winkler. But would everyone else enjoy it? Would a potential audience enjoy it? Maybe it was a little too dark. Then again, nowadays, everything was either a little too dark or a little too unrealistically lighthearted or a little too in between, lost in shades of grey. His whole life had been like that. It was always between the black, the white, and the shades of grey. Sometimes he used to feel like he was melting into the background, becoming part of the stage scenery, becoming one of those dreary shades of grey.

Now he stared at the document open on his laptop, wondering where this could go next. He wanted some drama in here, but he didn't want to have to invent it. He didn't want to have to copy real life around Anubis House either. He pushed his chair back a little and glanced around, trying not to look at the old things of his best friend - now hospitalized. Alfie had never been a shade of grey. He'd always been so incredibly fond of himself, so incredibly sure of himself, so confident, so peaceful, so innocent, so naive. Then there was him. He had always been just a shade of grey. Nobody ever noticed him, and if they did, it was because he'd lashed out at them. He didn't know what else to do. He'd grown up trying to protect himself and failing. He'd learned that getting to somebody else before they got to him was the best way to go about it.

His dull ice-coloured eyes landed on a book in the corner, one by Shakespeare. It was a good book, he thought; but if he ever let anyone know that, he'd never hear the end of it. Alfie had noticed the book hidden in the corner once but he never asked any questions about it. Alfie had just been a good roommate like that. Alfie had just been a good friend like that. And now Alfie was lying in a hospital bed, maybe dying, maybe dead already.

His ice-coloured eyes turned to a cloudier shade of foggy morning sky, and he quickly strode across the room to pick up the book. He returned to his seat and paged through the book, thinking that if audiences liked anything, it was a new take on something old. Perhaps he'd be able to incorporate some _Julius Caesar_. Who didn't enjoy this story, anyway? A lot of people probably hadn't read it, he realised - but who cared?

He decided to make it the opposite in his play. Instead of having the best friend betray the lead character, he'd have the lead character betray the best friend. That was the way it always went in his life, anyway. It would be good that he crammed some reality in there. He really hoped that when he showed this play to Mr. Winkler he wouldn't be laughed at. He had a feeling Mr. Winkler would understand.

Forty-two songs, three hours and ten aching fingers later, he was finished with the first act. It was fantastic, he thought, and he even had some time leftover before supper to start in on the second act. The second act was a daunting feat, but it would be nothing compared to the third act. He hadn't quite thought up an ending to his murder mystery script yet, and besides, he didn't want to end it on a super-cheesy note.

He scrolled up through the document, breezing through the lines, thinking how wonderfully it could be portrayed onstage. He wondered if he was somehow becoming something other than a shade of grey. Maybe he was turning into a full colour, vibrant colours. Maybe this script would be a good way to help himself along. He didn't know, but he thought this script would at least be good for something.

He managed to write several more scenes into the second act before Victor called for suppertime. But he wasn't feeling hungry, unless ravenous for more writing counted. Why did he like this so much? He had never really thought of himself as much of a writer. He'd thought of himself as more of a prankster, the type of guy that jokingly added Sharpie mustaches and curly eyebrows to real artists' work. Now, he supposed, as he was shifting into something colourful, maybe he was changing too.

It was far past bedtime when he finished the second act, and it was two AM when he finished the third. He was tired, exhausted, but it was a very good tired. He was smiling for the first time in a long time - the first **real** smile in a long time - when he climbed into bed. He pulled the covers over his head and fell asleep almost ten minutes after he closed his eyes.

The next morning, the first thing he did was put his document on a USB port. He skipped breakfast altogether and went straight to school, walking with his head down and his hands shoved into his pockets through the rain. When he arrived at the school he walked to Mr. Winkler's room, where he held out the USB port and said, "My script."

"Whoa," said Mr. Winkler, taking the proffered USB port. "I didn't expect this so fast. Thanks. I guess I'll print this off and we'll be able to read over it first today." Mr. Winkler smiled and nodded and went back to whatever business he'd been originally attending to. Meanwhile, the shade of grey maybe turning into something better turned and left the room.

He was anxiously awaiting last period.

When it finally came, he wondered why he'd been so anxious. He was nervous now, impeccably nervous. Mr. Winkler passed out copies of the script, saying simply that 'a student' wrote it. Some people paged through it - Fabian Rutter and Nina Martin - and others simply ignored it (Amber Millington and Mick Campbell). Mr. Winkler shoved people onstage and they ran the script.

And when the first few scenes were over, he kind of wanted to die. But that wasn't entirely unusual. Being a shade of grey almost always made him want to disappear, as if he didn't do that enough. At least Mr. Winkler had never said who wrote the script.

And when they skipped the second act completely, which was the most crucial fulcrum of the entire script, to go right to the end, the others started to complain. "This is so stupid," Amber whined. "Why would he want to kill himself? Depressed people are like, **so** obnoxious."

"Yeah," added Mick. "Why isn't the lead character more in this? Why is the best friend the one that's going off to do himself in? Was he the one who committed the murder or something?"

Patricia injected, "I think the whole thing is a load of bull."

"It's barmy," agreed Mara, who usually never insulted anything that obviously took time and effort.

"Whoever sat on their arse to write this **clearly** didn't take too much time to think this out. I mean, come on. If it's a murder mystery you don't focus on the depression of a supporting character!" Mick was so kind to point out.

Nina even said in a muted voice, "I think people that are depressed don't look at life the right way. There are so many good things that they just can't see." And then Patricia started to giggle.

"Who would be stupid enough to even **be** depressed?" Then Mick chuckled, Amber laughed into her sleeve, Fabian averted his eyes trying to hide a slight grin, Mara's chin trembled as if she was holding back a laugh, and even Nina snickered. Then they all looked at him like he was missing something important.

That was the last straw.

He stepped forward into the lights on the stage. Mr. Winkler was giving him a pitying look from the back. Everyone was still getting over themselves, trying to stop laughing at the misfortunate. He opened his mouth before he could slam his jaw shut and yelled, "Will all of you just **shut up**!"

Shocked that such a thing would emerge from his mouth, everyone did just that. Mr. Winkler even looked a little surprised in the back. But they were all listening, for once in their miserably fortunately unwaveringly **joyful** lives. "None of you know **anything** about depression, and it's not funny! It's a disease, for God's sake, it's something that is utterly inescapable! The people that are depressed aren't stupid, they're the ones that take the time to sit down and think, sit down and think about how their whole lives everybody's **hated** them so much that they were passed from parent to parent, with the occasional abusive one, and the only way they know now to defend themselves is by **lashing out** at others before the others can hurt them! And you know what? Most of all, it makes **perfect** sense for the supporting character to go off to try and kill himself, because for one thing, he obviously turns out to be the main character, and this script obviously is not about solving a stupid murder, it's about this so-called 'supporting' character finding out what he's really here for!" He paused, taking in a few ragged breaths. He threw his copy of his own mocked script to the floor of the stage and left his astonished audience with one last piece of food for thought. "Since you didn't pay attention long enough to find out what the ending was, he didn't end up killing himself and the murder was solved. But you know what? I think I might change it to where he **does** kill himself."

With that, Jerome Clarke turned and walked off the stage with what shreds of dignity he could. There wasn't much of it. It was never a really dignifying thing to tear up in front of an audience.

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**A/N:** You can interpret that ending any way you want to.


End file.
